“Yes, it does. I represent the island’s interests, the historical society and the church. Surely you feel you can trust me with the information on the case.”
“Of course I trust you, Sister.” In his meddling hometown, was there any way he really thought he could be in charge of a simple burglary without interference? He’d led covert international flight missions with less interrogation.
He forced a smile. “I’d be grateful for any insight you could give me into the case.”
She leaned forward and laid her pale, vein-covered hand over his. “You’ll make a good sheriff, Tyler.”
Suddenly, he felt the weight of his own history, the fear of the future. His family expected a great deal from him, and for the first time in his life he wasn’t sure he could measure up. After his last, disastrous mission, his confidence had taken a huge blow. Would he ever recover completely?
“I certainly hope to be,” he said.
“So…the pawnshops.”
Shifting his thoughts to the theft and its motives, he leaned back in his chair. “Have you considered the idea that the thief doesn’t know the silver’s historical significance?”
“No,” she said, looking impressed. “I haven’t.”
“An employee who’s desperate for money could have lifted the set without forcing the lock.”
“Simon Iverson is her great-nephew. He doesn’t have financial problems, but he’s in her house frequently. He knows everyone who works there.”
As Tyler wrote the name on his pad, he also made a note to check those financial records. Just in case.
“And the church occasionally brings meals to Henrietta. She actually sponsors our home missions project.”
“Which means?”
“She bought our van, and her annual donation pays for nearly our entire budget of supplies to make meals that volunteers take to those who’re sick or housebound and can’t come to church. Her only stipulation is that she be included in the deliveries once a week. She’s lonely and likes to be catered to.”
Tyler really didn’t want to fulfill the lonely needs of Mrs. Henrietta Jackson, but that didn’t negate his duty to see her case through. “I’ll need the names of the volunteers who delivered the meals.”
“I’ll check my records and let you know.” She smiled, then added, “I’m glad you’ve given this so much thought. Do you have a theory about who might have taken the set?”
“I’m not sure about a theory yet, but two things stand out to me—the stealth of the theft, and the difficulty of profiting from the act. If the thief was smart enough not to get caught taking the silver and also understood its value, then he or she had to know reselling it would be complicated.”
“A smart criminal and a dumb crime.”
Now it was Tyler’s turn to be impressed. “You’re very skilled at succinctness, Sister.”
“It helps when teaching Proverbs to teenagers.”
“You also seem to know quite a bit about police procedure.”
She waved her hand. “Reruns of TV cop shows. Perhaps the thief is a professional.”
“Then why take only the tea set? She keeps enough jewelry in her bedroom to open her own museum. Plus there was a safe, which was not-so-cleverly hidden behind a painting in the library. It hadn’t been touched.”
“The silver could be valuable to a collector. What if a thief was hired to get that one thing?”
“That’s possible, but how would I find a collector who—” He ground to a halt as an idea occurred to him. An idea about who might know about collectors who would obtain a coveted piece and not ask too many questions about how it had been acquired.
“Tyler?” Sister Mary Katherine prompted.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You have a theory?”
“Just a possible source on finding an unscrupulous collector.”
“Excellent. I’ll let you get started.”
As she rose, Tyler stood as well. “Sister, one last thing…” He rounded the desk and took her arm to escort her out. “We also have to consider the possibility that the silver set hasn’t been stolen at all. Just…misplaced.”
Her face flushed, she nodded. “Yes, I guess we do.”
“It would also be helpful if the victim wasn’t intent on blaming aliens for her property loss.”
“Henrietta has a vivid imagination.”
“There was mention of zipping and bopping—whatever those are.”
“I’ll try to counsel her—and hopefully get a straight answer. I wouldn’t want the set to turn up at a jeweler’s, where she’d sent it to be cleaned, leaving you only with an embarrassing story in the newspaper.”
“The newspaper?” Tyler echoed absently, his mind already on finding a persuasive way to get Andrea to help him.
“You know how Henrietta loves attention. She probably called them before you.”
“I guess so.”
She squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry. The timing’s perfect for you to get some good publicity for your campaign.”
Frankly, Tyler wasn’t worried about the paper. Or the case.
He was worried about Andrea.
She was obviously attracted to him. Why wouldn’t she go out with him? Maybe he’d simply been too presumptive earlier, asking her out on such short notice. Maybe dinner was too much. A drink was more casual. Not so significant.
After walking the sister to her car, he returned to the office—where Aqua was now reading about the latest trends in platform sandals—and went in search of Dwayne.
He found his fellow deputy in the records room. Dwayne liked alphabetizing things.
Watching him doggedly plow through a metal filing cabinet, humming under his breath, Tyler remembered that he and Dwayne shared something besides a job title. Trouble with a woman.
Everybody on the island knew Dwayne was completely in love with Misty Mickerson, a teller at the local bank. He’d been asking her out, like clockwork, every two weeks since her divorce two years ago. It was common knowledge that the only thing positive Misty’s ex had given her was her three-year-old son. The rest had been dark and abusive.
Romantics believed Misty would eventually heal and accept Dwayne’s offer. Cynics thought he was tilting at windmills.
Tyler finally understood his fellow deputy’s sentiment and determination.
“Hey, Dwayne, what do you know about Simon Iverson?”
“Mrs. Jackson’s nephew? He lives off Third Avenue. I think he’s an engineer at a firm in Charleston.”
“A nice house?”
“Sure.”
“But not beachside.” As fine a reason as any to resent a wealthy relative. “Does he have a good relationship with his aunt?”
“As far as I know.”
“Can you call around and try to find out for sure?”
“Yes, s—” He stopped, his cheeks reddened.
He had the feeling he was fighting a losing battle about the sir thing. “How about calling me lieutenant?” he suggested. “That’s at least a rank I’ve earned.”
Dwayne’s face immediately brightened. “Absolutely, Lieutenant. And I’ll get on the nephew angle right after I get this drawer straightened out.”
“Good. I’m headed out to the pool boy’s place. We can compare notes later.”
“You sure you don’t need me as backup?”
Even if he had, Tyler wouldn’t have said so and scared the life out of Dwayne. Exposure to Mrs. Jackson had been enough excitement for one day. “If he swings his surf-board at me, I’ll duck.”
Tyler headed to the front room to put the other half of his crack team to work. “Aqua, I need a background check on Simon Iverson. His address should be somewhere on Third.”
Without looking up from her magazine, she muttered, “Dweeb.”
Surely she meant Iverson. Tyler didn’t think he’d lost his charm that significantly. “You don’t like him?”
“He’s okay. Just dweebie. I’m on it, boss.”
Risking a brief glance at the magazine to note the engrossing pictorial debate on London Sheraton’s latest toe polish color, he reluctantly nodded. “I can see that.”
5
IT WAS MONDAY EVENING and Andrea fought the urge to look around the bar. Again.
Instead, she sipped her chardonnay and stared at the rippling waves crashing onto the sandy shore. The increase in tourism over the summer had prompted a local fisherman to open his own restaurant/bar on the beach, bringing the number of restaurants on the island up to a grand total of six.
Since it was mere blocks from her house, Andrea had eaten at Coconut Joe’s quite a few times over the last several months. The building hovered on planks above the sand a bare hundred yards from the Atlantic. The decor was casual beach shack circa 1950—surfboards and framed shells on the walls, fishing nets draped from the high, wooden-plank ceiling, mismatched wicker chairs and barstools and tabletops that were lacquered board game classics like Monopoly and Scrabble.
The food, however, was first-class.
“Don’t tell me you’re being stood up,” Sammy the bartender—and Joe’s oldest son—asked with raised eyebrows.
“I don’t think so. I’m just early.” She didn’t want to bring up the humiliating fact that she’d needed a drink to prepare for her drink.
“Hello there, Sammy,” a familiar voice said from behind her, and she turned to have the pleasure of watching darkly handsome Carr Hamilton slide onto the barstool next to her. “And Andrea, of course. Now that I’ve made the world safe for litigation, I deserve a drink.”
“Should that be safe from litigation?” she asked.
“Definitely not. It’s every American’s right to make their fortune from adversity.”
“As long as you get thirty percent.”
“Exactly.” Smiling, he sipped his drink, a smooth Canadian whiskey she knew from experience. “Drinking alone, are we?”
“She has a date,” Sammy offered.
Carr’s dark brown eyes twinkled. “Does she now?”
“With the sheriff,” Sammy added.
“The future sheriff—possibly,” Andrea corrected. “And it’s not a date. It’s business.”
“You might not want to tell people you have business with the sheriff,” Sammy said. “Most of his business associates are behind bars.” He headed off to fill another customer’s order.
“Handy then that your lawyer is here.” Carr grinned. “You and Tyler Landry, huh?”
Thankfully, Carr was five years older than her and didn’t know about her embarrassing crush back in high school. He just liked to tease her about her love life. Or lack thereof.
Why couldn’t she fall for brilliant, steady and gorgeous Carr? They were both native islanders, practically neighbors—Carr owned a stunning modern house on the point. When she’d started coming home more often to see her brother, they had actually gone out a few times, but somehow the sparks never flew. They’d become good friends instead, and as an attorney Carr had even recommended a colleague who specialized in troubled teens to defend her brother. His gang involvement had led him to a career in stealing cars, landing him a five-year sentence in prison. With the attorney’s help, he’d gotten Finn counseling and an early parole.
“It has to do with a case of his,” she said to Carr.
“Mrs. Jackson’s silver tea service.”
Andrea nearly choked on her wine. She didn’t imagine Tyler wanted his business spread around like gossip among the islanders. One of these folks was a thief, after all. “How’d you know that?”
He ticked off the facts on his fingers. “Stolen historical item. Pushy owner who wants answers. And you with all your degrees in useless ancient history and stuff.” He sipped his whiskey. “I got an A in deductive reasoning at Yale.”
“It’s the and stuff that made me a cinch for the job.”
“Not to mention you have much better legs than Deputy Dwayne.”
“No kidding, this is strictly business. I’m going to do what I can to help him with the case, and that’s it. I mean, me and The Great Tyler Landry? Who’d buy that relationship? He’s a war hero, for heaven’s sake. A couple of years ago, when I was living in Washington, the Post did a special story on him, about him saving an entire country or something.”
“I think it was a village, actually.”
“Right. He got some super-duper-special medal.”
“The Congressional Medal of Honor.”
She gestured with her wineglass. “That’s the one. So, me and him? That’s—” It suddenly occurred to her that she was both rambling and not telling her friend anything he wasn’t already aware of. “How do you know all this?”
“The wires picked up his story. The Island Gazette dedicated the entire paper to him. Plus, he’s running for sheriff of my island, and I’m an informed citizen. But I still don’t see what medals he does or doesn’t own have to do with you two seeing each other.”
“Trust me, it does.”
“Andrea?”
Whirling, she faced Tyler and prayed he hadn’t overheard her and Carr’s conversation. “Hey.”
He’d taken the time to change from his deputy’s uniform and wore jeans and a pale yellow polo shirt that stretched across his broad chest and accented his tan skin. She barely resisted the urge to hum in appreciation.
His gaze went from her to her half-empty glass and then to Carr. “We said seven-thirty, right?”
“We did. I just got here early.” After she made the introductions between the two men, she added, “Carr lives down the beach from me.”
“Really?”
Noting Tyler’s cool tone, she wondered if he was in a hurry or if he was bothered by finding her with another man. He’d made it clear on the phone that this wasn’t a date; it was a business meeting. Still, she had to admit she’d be less than excited if she arrived to find him sharing a drink with another woman.
They had a seriously screwed-up relationship.
Sammy approached at that moment to take Tyler’s drink order. “I think we’re going to move down,” she said, pointing to the end of the row of barstools. “See ya, Carr.”
As she scooped up her wine, Carr asked quietly, “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you and make sure your civil rights aren’t violated?”
“I’m perfectly safe.”
He glanced over her head at Tyler, then back at her. “Don’t be too sure about that.”
Ignoring that loaded comment, she hitched her purse on her shoulder, then headed off to her new seat, hoping Tyler would follow.
He did, saying nothing until Sammy set a bottle of beer in front of him. “Was he your dinner date last night?”
“Carr? No.”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
What the hell? “That’s—”
Tyler held up his hand to stop her. “Sorry. None of my business.” He took a sip of beer. “It’s been a really frustrating day.”
“I can tell. Why don’t we—”
“Well, Patsy, if it isn’t our future sheriff and our favorite art historian.” Betsy Johnson, along with her constant sidekick, Patsy Smith, approached Andrea and Tyler.
Patsy frowned. “How many art historians do we actually know, Betsy?”
“Well, only one,” Betsy admitted. “But she is very smart and talented.”
Patsy sighed. “Alone, though.”
“True, but so is the future sheriff, as we learned last night.”
“Is he really the only sheriff we know?” Patsy asked, angling her head.
“Unless your nephew—”
“Ladies,” Andrea interrupted, knowing the pattern of banter and matchmaking well from her childhood, “do you want to have this conversation all by yourselves, or did you need us for a reason?”
Betsy’s lips pursed in irritation as Patsy spoke. “We actually came to Joe’s for a grouper sandwich. He makes the best on the island, you know.”
Andrea glanced at Tyler, who’d at least l
ost his glum expression. “I know.”
Betsy nodded. “But we saw Tyler and had to come over and remind him that Wednesday night is the Dolphin Club meeting.”
“The what?” Tyler asked.
“It’s like the Rotary Club,” Patsy explained, “but we islanders like to be a bit more unique.”
Betsy nodded. “They raise money to build homes for impoverished children in foreign countries mostly, but with the election so close at hand…”
“Two weeks from tomorrow,” Patsy said.
Andrea could see where this was leading. “You thought Tyler could speak at the meeting and get the support of the Dolphins.”
“They’re very influential,” Betsy said.
Patsy smiled. “Sheriff Caldwell’s a member.”
“I’ll be there,” Tyler said quickly, clearly catching the hint. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“You, too, Andrea.” Patsy patted her hand. “It’s such a lovely social occasion. The Dolphins have a private club on Sixth Avenue where the party will take place.”
“And we’re providing the food,” Betsy said proudly, waving as she and Patsy turned away. “Don’t be late.”
“The campaign rolls on,” Andrea said, meeting Tyler’s gaze and noting his slumped posture.
“As well as the case.”
“How about dinner?” She grinned. “I hear Joe makes a great grouper sandwich.”
He returned her smile, but weakly. “Sure.”
She called Sammy over and ordered the sandwiches, after which she reflected on Tyler’s uncharacteristic slumped posture. Had running into Carr really bothered him so much or was it simply the case frustrating him?
She was pretty sure she could eliminate worry about the Dolphins party. “No leads on the silver?” she asked.
“None. I talked to her pool maintenance guy today, but he says he never even goes in the house.”
“Except when Mrs. Jackson tries to lure him inside with a nice, cold glass of lemonade?”
He glanced at her, and his lips tipped up. “Pretty much.”
“Kirk is definite luring material, so you can’t blame the old gal for trying.”
The frown returned. “Is he really? I guess he maintains your pool, too.”
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